


Separation Anxiety

by Tricki



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Married Dany and Jorah, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 05:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11685114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tricki/pseuds/Tricki
Summary: It has been some time now since Ser Jorah Mormont was strapped into his armour with the intention of going into battle rather than King’s Landing’s well equipped training ground to run drills with the Knights of the Queensguard, and his Queen is not entirely comfortable with the idea.  [Dany x Jorah]





	Separation Anxiety

It has been some time since Ser Jorah Mormont was strapped into his armour with the intention of going into battle rather than King’s Landing’s well equipped training ground to run drills with the Knights of the Queensguard. 

As a consequence, there is an entirely different mood in his chambers as his squire straps his breastplate over his chest this day.  There is a battle raging at the Fingers - a petty quarrel that has brewed into a genuine threat against the peace of the realm.  It is nothing that a small contingent of the Queensguard and a host of loyal bannermen cannot handle, but the usually sanguine Queen is anything but relaxed about the whole exercise. 

A pale hand reaches out and trails over the black bear carved into Jorah’s cool green armour - a little rebellion against the classic golden scales usually worn by one in his position.  “I will not have this.”  Daenerys speaks the words softly but sternly.  Jorah manages to keep himself from smiling at her protectiveness, but his blue eyes soften as he studies her, covers her hand with his own and curls it around hers. 

“There is little honour in a Lord Commander who will not ride with his men, my love.”  His voice is soft and reasonable.  Usually Daenerys would succumb to that tone immediately.  Today she will not be swayed, even when he lifts her fingers to brush them against his lips.  He dismisses his squire with a glance.

“What do I care for honour when weighed against the life of my husband?”  She demands.

“You care very much for honour, and always have.  It is one of the qualities that has made you such a good Queen.”  He is still holding her fingers in his, rubbing a soothing circle on the back of them with the pad of his thumb.  Her violet eyes are stormy, and Jorah is worried at his ability to calm them and return his Queen’s peace of mind before he must ride out of King’s Landing to keep the Queen’s peace.

“I care little for my good traits right now, either.”  She gripes, resisting the allure of her husband’s hands, which are now smoothing over her cheeks, her shoulders.  He settles them on her waist.

“Daenerys, this is a minor scuffle.  Your men are more than capable or resolving this.  _I_ am more than capable of resolving this.  What is troubling you so much?”

Daenerys reaches to his lined face, his ginger whiskers. 

“I love you.”  She whispers.  “There is not a person in the seven kingdoms more precious to me than you.” 

“And this has been the case for some time, my love.  It has been true while I have fought and jousted and battled in Mereen and - ”

“And _not_ while you have been the Lord by my side on the Iron Throne.”   She touches his face again with such reverence that he wonders if perhaps he should oblige her.  “You are not as young as you used to be, my Bear.”

“That is true,” he allows.  “But I am also better rested and better fed than when I roamed the Seven Kingdoms and fought all manner of evils to return to you.”  Daenerys’ gaze drops to Jorah’s maimed left arm, safely encased in mail and metal plates so she cannot see the stone pattern etched into his skin, the scarring that plays across his still-muscled torso.  “I spend my days sparring with the Knights of your Queensguard.  Sweetling, I have not been better equipped for such a fight in many moons.”

“Good.”  Daenerys says, her tone steely.  “I am glad to hear my lord husband is so well; however I fail to see how the fact that you are able to fight means you _should_.”

Jorah studies her patiently, loving her for the ferocity of her love.  He touches her cheek gently with calloused fingers.  “I think you do, my love.” 

Daenerys crosses away from him and gazes out the window, eyes unfocussed. 

“I will not forbid you to go.”  She says.  Jorah nods, although she is facing away from him.  “But you must promise me something,” She turns her head over her shoulder to lock eyes with his, before crossing back to him.  “Promise you will return to me.  Intact and unharmed.”

“I have spent my life returning to you.  I have no intention of stopping now.”

“I mean it, Jorah.”  She intones firmly, all at once toe to toe with him, more than a foot shorter than him but nevertheless filling the space.  “If you come back to me broken or wounded or dying I will feed you to Drogon myself.”

Jorah rests his fingertips against the soft skin of her cheeks so lightly it makes her breath catch.  He whispers his lips against hers, before muttering “I believe you.”

Resigned, Daenerys pushes off him again, green armour cool against her palms.  She returns with his cloak flowing over her arm, which she affixes it to his shoulders with onyx three headed dragon clasps. 

Daenerys takes his face in her hands, his ginger whiskers teasing her palms, and kisses him deeply enough to let him know that she would like to do more than kiss him. 

“Now go before I change my mind.”  Her bear does not tempt fate by lingering in her presence. 

 

It is almost a full moon before Daenerys hears substantive word of her husband, and the rider bringing news of his return is breathless when he pulls up his palfrey at the gates of the Red Keep.  A horn sounds upon his arrival, its call quickly returned by another. 

“Jorah,” The word falls from Daenerys’ lips as soon as the victory cry begins to sound.  His name has been pulsing through her veins with every heartbeat, and now, with the thought of him almost being near enough to touch, she is unable to keep still.  The Queen hurtles from Maegor’s Holdfast to the stables at the back of the Red Keep, glancing past a bemused Tyrion on the way and scaring a dozen stable hands.  Despite protestations, Dany bridles her dapple-grey destrier and swings onto the mare bareback before charging out of the stable block towards the Old Gate, where she assumes her Bear will be re-entering their capital. 

The Knights of her Queensguard who have remained in King’s Landing do not catch up to her until her after she has reined up beside her husband.

Daenerys’ violet eyes take her Knight in hungrily as she holds her panting horse steady, assessing him for damage.  She’s taken aback by how elated he looks, how euphoric.  He is beaming, and not the way he beams _at her_ in particular; just the way he beams when he is happy.  His face quickly melts into the look of adulation he reserves for her, and he springs off his favourite horse, a shining black rounsey named Zaldrīzes, like a man half his age.  Daenerys has always loved Jorah’s lack of pretention with horses - where he could have the best bred destriers in the land, he favours this mare with no particular pedigree, but all the courage and loyalty a man could ask for in a beast.  Jorah runs a reverent hand over Zaldrīzes’ muscled and sweat dampened neck before crossing to Daenerys’ destrier and plucking her down from the grey mare’s back.

Her Bear is about to lean in and capture her lips with his, but Daenerys holds him at bay with a firm hand on his breastplate.  The green metal bears new scars, but Jorah himself seems the be substantially intact, aside from a split lip and a blossoming bruise on his left cheekbone. 

“I told you to return to me unharmed.”  Daenerys says, a note of chastisement in her tone.

“And here we stand.”  Jorah retorts, still beaming at her, blue eyes shining. 

Daenerys whispers a finger over his split lip.  “This wasn’t what I had in mind.” 

The Knight responds by bending and covering her mouth with his, pulling her flush against his body in the process.  Jorah quashes the wince that threatens to overtake him as pain jabs at his lip.  Daenerys presses herself against him hard, the cold metal of his armour cooling her skin deliciously through the delicate silk of her gown, and she wishes they didn’t have a thirty minute ride in front of them before she could free him of his armour.  Daenerys and Jorah often play a game with each other, and wait to see who will give in and seek access to the other’s mouth first.  This blazing afternoon, Daenerys  makes no attempt to win, soothing her tongue over his split lower lip beseechingly until her Bear obliges and lets her enter him.  His beard scratches at Daenerys’ face, and she is overtaken by the sensations of him, the smells of sweat and blood and dirt after rain that roll off him.  When they part for air Jorah presses kisses to her chin, and down the sinewy line of her neck. 

“My love.”  Daenerys breathes, fingers curling into his hair.  Jorah is being trailed by bannermen, soldiers, and Knights of the Queensguard, while his wife has been pursued by her own host of Knights; they are only dimly aware of having a rather large audience. 

“I would that we were alone.”  The Knight whispers into his Queen’s ear. 

Daenerys is so desperate for her husband’s touch that she considers adopting the Dothraki custom and mounting him here beside the Kingsroad.  She restrains herself and instead mounts Jorah’s mare, shifting her leg forward so he can climb onto the tall mare’s rump, behind her saddle.  Having taken many a lowkey ramble around the meadows of Westeros in this position, Jorah takes his queue, passing Daenerys her destrier’s reins and mounting his rounsey.  Once he’s settled behind her, a hand resting easily on her waist, Daenerys hands her destrier’s reins back to her Bear, nudges Zaldrīzes into a trot and then a collected canter, her own dappled mare loping at their side. 

The mother of dragons had not dressed for riding, and the press of Jorah’s armour against her is cold through the silk of her dress, but she welcomes the reassurance of iron against her back and a scratchy beard against the curve of her neck.  The couple chatters idly during the ride, and Jorah is glad to have the curve of her waist beneath his arm.  They ride through the streets of King’s Landing surrounded by Knights of the Queensguard and those returning from battle.  If the smallfolk are surprised to see their Queen and her King riding through the streets on the same horse with the Queen’s own mount bareback and trotting beside them, they give no particular indication of it.  They ride through the Barbican, and make their way straight to the stables, where Jorah dismounts and, unnecessarily, lifts Daenerys from the saddle.  She pecks his lips once her feet are back on the ground, and is readying herself to lead her victorious Knight back to the Royal Apartments for a well deserved private reunion.  Ser Jorah, unfortunately, is determined to groom his horse, as he always has when returning from a fight of any kind. 

One of the stable-hands takes Daenerys’ destrier by the reins and leads the mount to her stable, while Jorah leads his mare to the one opposite, releasing her girth casually as they move. 

“My love, surely Zaldrīzes can be trusted to your squire on this one occasion?”  The Queen suggests, clasping her hands and watching him with a wry but patient smile.  Zaldrīzes stands, untethered but unmoving, in the middle of her stall, while Jorah lifts her saddle and thrusts it, unceremoniously into the arms of his squire.  Beneath the saddle, her smooth black coat is mottled with dried sweat.  He adds the mare’s ornate bridle to the pile in his squire’s arms.

“You tend to your dragons and I tend to mine, sweetling.”  Daenerys moves into the stable, laying an alabaster hand on his ebony mare’s rump. 

“Men who have genuine affection for their wives seldom neglect them in favour of their horses.”  She observes, fingers still playing idly over the horse’s hide.

“It was Zaldrīzes who brought me home to you, Daenerys.”  He says gently, touching his lips to her cheek as he rubs a damp cloth over the sweat marks on the muscled rounsey.  “Grooming the poor beast is the least I can do.”

“You are a sentimental old man, Jorah the Andal.”  The Targaryen Queen chides affectionately.

“And you are foolish enough to have made yourself my wife.”  He fires back.  The soft pattern of teasing is well worn between them.  Their eyes meet and a private smile passes between them; Daenerys passes him a stiff bristled brush, which he works over his horse’s coat expertly.  His wife watches him impatiently, but knows she will not hasten him, no matter what she says.

“Rylar, where is - ”

“Here, m’lord.”  Jorah’s squire replies, appearing as if out of nowhere with a bucket of oats and crushed apples.  The Knight scratches Zaldrīzes’ neck affectionately and places the bucket before her.  She quickly turns her attention to her meal, and her owner turns his to the Targaryen Queen who is watching him. 

“Might I trouble you for your attention now, my lord?”

“Indeed you may, Your Grace.”  He teases in response.  Daenerys takes her husband by both hands and pulls him towards her, kissing the back of each hand languidly before rising onto her tip toes and bringing her lips to his.  In a clean movement the couple has disentangled their hands, Jorah pinning Daenerys to him with one hand on her lower back and the other between the blades of her shoulders.  The soft touch of his wife’s fingers cradling his face makes Jorah wonder why he insists upon being so disciplined with the care of his horse.  The insistent sweep of his wife’s tongue within his mouth pushes all rational thought from his mind. 

“Take me to bed.”  Daenerys purrs when their lips part.  Jorah nudges her nose with his tenderly. 

“You know I could never refuse you.” 

They walk as quickly to the Royal Apartments as they can without attracting undue attention, Jorah’s arm bent and Daenerys’ hand curved around his bicep. 

“Who built this damnable castle?”  Jorah mumbles, as the distance between the stables and the Holdfast begins to grate on him. 

“Someone who didn’t insist on tending his own horse.”  The Queen fires back.  As soon as they step foot in the Apartment, Daenerys sets to work on the buckles holding his armour in place.  Jorah laughs at his wife’s vigour, puldrons and vambraces cry out metallically as they hit the ground; he slings the breastplate and backplate - still joined at the shoulder - over his head unceremoniously as soon as she has them unbuckled at the sides.  The carefully crafted armour clatters to the floor loudly.

“I’m at an unfair disadvantage, my Bear.”  Daenerys mumbles between pecking his lips.

“In what way, my love?”  Jorah queries, running his hands over her shoulders and sending the straps of her gown down her arms as his wife works on the laces of his breeches. 

“I am far easier to undress than you are.”  The Knight laughs against her mouth, the rough rumble that she knows and loves so well, and he proves her point by disrobing her completely in mere moments. 

Jorah is always attentive and eager in their couplings, but tonight, full of adrenalin and flush with victory, he sends Daenerys to her peak four times, filling the Royal Apartments with her inarticulate cries of pleasure.  Jorah scatters whisper-light kisses across her face as they come down together, and soon the bear is on his back with his Khaleesi curled across his chest.  Daenerys’ right hand traces letters on his chest, but Jorah isn’t paying enough mind to her fingers to realise she is writing ‘hlizif’ on his chest, the Dothraki word for bear.

He tells her tales of his travels and the battle at the Fingers.  Her lips curve against his pectoral “And what became of the warrior brave enough to spill my bear’s blood?” 

“It was barely a drop of blood, sweetling.”  Jorah laughs softly, one hand smoothing over her silver hair while the other trails, feather light, over her upper arm. 

“More than I am willing to spare, at any rate.”  She mumbles, before propping her chin on his chest and locking his eyes with hers.  “Now _tell_ me.” 

“If I’d known you’d be so concerned my love, I would have brought you his head.”  She chuckles lightly against him and kisses his shoulder. 

“Perhaps an extreme response, my bear.” She mumbles, nipping lightly at his skin then soothing it with her tongue.  Jorah tugs her hair softly so she angles her head back up, bends forward and kisses her, tongue slipping deeply into her mouth.  The Queen slides further up her husband’s chest to regain some control over the kiss.  “You still haven’t told me what became of - what was your attacker’s name, Ser?”

“I never knew it.  Some sellsord Littlefinger used to keep himself flush in whores, horses and helms.  He didn’t last long - and I left his head attached.”   He pauses, looking over her head.  “Largely.”

“I’m sure the troubadours will sing of the Great Bear’s victory at the Fingers for...”  She meets his eyes in mock consideration, lulling him into a false sense of security.  “Several moons, at least.” 

A smile breaks over her Bear’s face so quickly it’s almost violent, and he barks a sudden laugh.  Still beaming he mumbles “You are a cruel woman, Daenerys Targaryen,” before bending and kissing her again.

“A cruel woman who loves you very much.”

“After much convincing, my Princess.”  He teases.

Daenerys shakes her head, unperturbed by his wry ribbing of her, and buries her head in the curve of his neck.  Her silver hair covers their shoulders like a silken scarf.  Smiling, she mumbles “Do continue telling me of the many ways I’ve wronged you, Jorah.” 

Jorah feels his wife beginning to drift from him and curls his arms around her more comfortably.  He kisses the crown of her head reverently, and quietly states “I intend to.” 

 

The next morning Jorah lays a necklace around Daenerys’ neck; it is as intricate and delicate as a spider’s web, gleaming silver with opals mounted in its strands. 

“A gift from a silversmith I came upon in the Fingers.”

Daenerys raises a reverent hand to trace it with her fingertips.  “It’s beautiful.” 

“It is not near to your own beauty, my love.”  Her bear fans her hair over her shoulders as he tells her this, taking in her face hungrily.  Daenerys wonders if he will ever relax into their marriage, or will always be slightly awestruck at the mere fact of it. 

“I don’t think you’re impartial on the subject, my love.”  The Queen smiles, trailing her fingers softly over his whiskered face before kissing him reverently.  Jorah settles his hands on the curve of her waist. 

“I fear we’re due in court, sweetling.”  Jorah mumbles once Daenerys has released his lower lip from her mouth, remembering his role as the Lord Commander of the Queensguard. 

“Always available to give me good counsel, even when I want it least.”  Jokes Daenerys. 

“My husbandly duty.”  Quips the Knight in response. 

Daenerys shakes her head wearily before retreating to retrieve her crown, which she settles upon her silver hair as she rejoins her husband. 

He offers her his arm, but before she takes it she studies him carefully, violet eyes drinking in the subtleties of his cool blue ones.  “Thank you,” says the Queen softly.  Jorah lays his fingers on a lush opal.

“Pleasing you is all I ever mean to do.”

“Not for the jewels, Jorah.”  His brows tick together in confusion.  Daenerys smoothes his frown with her thumb before cupping his face in her small hand.  “For coming home to me.”

Jorah takes her hand from his face and presses his still stinging lips to her knuckles. 

“Returning to you is my first thought whenever we part.  I will do so as long as I live.”  Daenerys rises onto her toes and presses a final, gentle, kiss to her bear’s mouth before returning to her place at his side and taking his previously proffered arm.  “I am glad to hear it.” 

 


End file.
